


Classical Conditioning

by elouette



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elouette/pseuds/elouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a creative idea, and took his mind off worrying about the flat being burned down for an hour, but it was unkind. In fact, most people would consider handcuffing their loved ones to a bedpost to be innately wrong. Living with Sherlock had clearly been poor for John’s morals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classical Conditioning

              It had started, as many problems in 221B did, with Sherlock not abiding by common rules of courtesy. John was used to being lenient, and he considered himself quite easygoing, but Sherlock had a special talent for irritating the piss out of anyone. John was only human, after all.

              He had also made the mistake of assuming that their change in relationship would, even slightly, alter Sherlock’s behavior. There had been a moment, after the adrenaline rush of being nearly blown to pieces by a bomb, that they’d kissed abruptly and fiercely and then tip-toed around the topic of feelings using very few words and avoiding eye-contact. It had been awkward, but worthwhile, to know that Sherlock reciprocated his romantic interest. Nevertheless, whether their status was as “flatmates”, “friends”, or “boyfriends” had no impact on Sherlock’s desire to fire a gun into their wall or sever fingers at the kitchen table. When he had nothing to do, he’d surely find something.

              When contained to one room, usually the kitchen, the mess was manageable. John had learned to depend on take-away and canned or packaged food, because open and perishable items were never safe in the refrigerator. He could manage that. But during particularly bad times, when Sherlock was without a case and horribly bored, the experiments stretched into other parts of the flat. When John returned from a long day of clinic hours he found a finger suspended in liquid in the bathroom, blood coagulating in tubes by the couch and, when he peered into Sherlock’s dark bedroom, found him dissecting a large, black bird.

               “Sherlock.” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

              "I’m trying to determine whether a raven could both sever and consume a man’s finger.” He explained, not moving his eyes from the project.

               “That’s nice, alright, but this is unsanitary. You need to keep these things in one place. What if we have guests over?” John said, trying to keep his voice calm.

               “Why would we want anyone to come over? Either way, I believe commenting on the state of someone’s house is considered rude.” Sherlock added.

               “Having dead body parts around your home when someone visits is considered rude, Sherlock. Listen, this isn’t worth arguing about. Just get this cleaned up by tomorrow, alright? I’m going to watch telly.” John said, turning on his heel and leaving Sherlock and the raven alone.

*

                In the morning, John was pleased to find the bathroom free of body parts and kitchen somewhat tidied up. Perhaps all Sherlock needed was clear direction and a strong command. He really did work best when there were boundaries; like a small child that needed to be told “no”. Over breakfast he told Sherlock that he planned to invite Mike over for a drink in the evening, and kindly asked Sherlock to keep the flat in good shape. Sherlock made an irritated face and stirred the spoon in his tea, but John didn’t expect any more of an answer. He headed off to St. Bart’s feeling quite pleased with himself.

*

                On the way home, John stopped by Tesco to pick up ingredients for Pasta Diavola, out of spontaneous urge to have a fresh cooked dinner. It was also one of the few dishes that Sherlock had ever complimented him on, which was a clear sign of how much he enjoyed it since Sherlock rarely gave compliments. He deserved a bit of a treat, John thought, for doing something he was asked to so readily when it made no difference to him. Heading up the stairs, John noticed a slightly smoky smell, and wondered if Mrs. Hudson had left something on the stove too long. He decided he’d check on her once he put the bags down but, upon opening the door to 221B, he discovered the source of the smell.

                Sherlock was standing in a cloud of smoke, waving his arms in vain attempt to dispel it. It would have been quite humorous to watch if it were a movie. But it was reality inside John and Sherlock’s flat which, most likely, contained something _on fire_.

                “Sherlock!” John yelled, dropping the Tesco bags on the floor and running to open the kitchen window.

                “It’s alright.” Sherlock half spoke and half coughed. “Nothing’s on fire.”

                “What in the hell were you doing?” John asked, coughing now too.

                “Testing the effects of radio waves on human flesh.” Sherlock waved his hand in the direction of the microwave, which was open and still emitting a small amount of smoke. Inside was something which, John assumed, was once a human finger but had become a much more gruesome sight. John let his eyes wander over the rest of the kitchen. There were test tubes, beakers, miscellaneous liquid substances, a scalpel, a pile of raven feathers, several notepads with Sherlock’s scribbled handwriting, and several other things John simply couldn’t identify. He felt the headache starting in his temples, like the few drops of rain before a torrential downpour.

                “I asked you to keep things clean so Mike could visit.” John spoke slowly.

                “Well what did you expect me to do all day?” Sherlock asked irritably. “Not touch anything? Confine myself to one room? This is my flat as much as it’s yours, John and I—“

                “No. Don’t play games with me. I asked you to do something simple and you’re being a child about it.” John felt his anger rising. “You know what? Just go to your room.”

                “You can’t tell me—“ Sherlock started, huffing a laugh.

                “GO, Sherlock.” John nearly hollered. He saw blatant surprise flash on Sherlock’s face, then watched as he slowly raised himself from his sitting position, and sauntered irritably towards his room.

                John called Mike and asked if they could meet at the pub instead. Then he filled the sink with hot water and soap, and began the long process of cleaning the kitchen. It smelled awful, like burnt meat, and rather than calming down John found himself becoming angrier. What gave Sherlock any right to do what he pleased all the time? He had no concept of responsibility. John didn’t know much about child psychology, but he was pretty sure this was a classic case of a boy who didn’t get enough discipline from his parents. If he hadn’t met Mycroft, John would have definitely assumed Sherlock was an only child. He acted completely entitled to getting anything and everything he wanted.

                John drained the sink and shook his head. The smell still lingered, and probably would for days. He headed up to his room to find a clean shirt, since the one he was wearing surely smelled rank and he had soap up to his elbows. As he was digging through his top drawer he felt his hands brush metal. He grasped the item and pulled it out. Handcuffs? He didn’t remember getting them at first, then recalled that he hadn’t. Sherlock had lifted them off of Lestrade one evening and held them out proudly to John on the cab ride home. The idea that flickered through his mind seemed a bit harsh, but then, Sherlock needed harsh or else he’d never learn.

                John found Sherlock in his room, sitting on his bed, calmly reading a French chemistry book as though nothing had occurred. One certainly couldn’t guess that he’d nearly burnt the flat down 15 minutes prior. Before he could lose his confidence, John walked briskly across the room and clasped one handcuff around Sherlock’s wrist.

                “John, what--” He protested and pulled, trying to twist his wrist out of John’s grasp.

                 But John was just as strong as Sherlock and feeling quite dedicated to the task. He closed the other handcuff around the bedpost, giving Sherlock a small but comfortable range of movement. He stood and brushed the wrinkles from his shirt.

                “I’m going out to have a pint with Mike. Hopefully this will help you learn your lesson.” John paused then and huffed a laugh. “What am I even saying? You’ll be back to burning things as soon as I uncuff you.”

                  He turned and left the room, ignoring Sherlock’s loud protests.

*

                  At his first sip, John knew that going out with Mike was a good idea. Doing something outside of the flat made him feel shockingly…normal. It was oddly comforting to be reminded that life outside 221B had not become as absurd as life inside it. Mike complained about his wife’s nagging and told stories that made John belly laugh. He asked Mike about his daughters, and he proudly told John that his younger daughter Lily was going to be in the school play and his elder daughter, Margaret, was playing violin in the school orchestra. That dragged John’s thoughts back to Sherlock, who would most likely have been composing at that time had he not been handcuffed to a bed. John felt the queasy edge of guilt in his stomach. It had been a creative idea, and took his mind off worrying about the flat being burned down for an hour, but it was unkind. In fact, most people would consider handcuffing their loved ones to a bedpost to be innately wrong. Living with Sherlock had clearly been poor for John’s morals.

                  After finishing his second beer, John gave Mike a handshake and said he had to be off. He felt increasingly guilty as he walked back to the flat. It had been over an hour, and he knew Sherlock would punish him with days of sulking and arguing with about every inconsequential thing.

                   When he opened the door to Sherlock’s room, he found his looking surprisingly calm. His shirt was wrinkled as though he had been wriggling about for some time, trying to extract himself from his bonds, but he was now lying down and breathing calmly. His eyes were closed, and John thought for a moment that he might be asleep, so he quietly padded over to the side of the bed and fished the key out of his pocket. Sherlock’s eyes opened when John slid the key into the lock.

                   “I’m sorry.” John said, gently massaging Sherlock’s wrist where the metal had been rubbing. “I shouldn’t have handcuffed you to a bed.”

                   “And I shouldn’t do experiments in the kitchen when we’re expecting someone.” Sherlock said quietly.  “And I shouldn’t put human flesh in the microwave.”

                    John laughed and Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a smile. He tugged gently at the hem of John’s shirt, wordlessly requesting that John bend forward. John acquiesced, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, which were soft and surprisingly warm. He climbed onto the bed and straddled Sherlock’s thighs, pressing his hands into the soft fabric of his shirt. He always liked the solid weight of Sherlock beneath him; the planes of his body traceable beneath his fingers. Sherlock tilted his head slightly and opened his mouth, inviting. John slid his tongue in and reveled in the soft sound that came from Sherlock’s throat. Usually sex happened after a case, when Sherlock’s brain could make room for something else but he’s still pumped full of adrenaline. John liked him like this, relaxed and pliant, letting John set the pace.

                   It was about 2 seconds after that thought that John found himself flat on his back with Sherlock atop him, holding his hands in a vice grip while he secured the handcuffs around his wrists.

                   “Sherlock?” John asked, shifting uncomfortably. “Listen, I know I deserve this and all but I’d really rather finish what we started…”

                    Sherlock said nothing. Rather, he started unbuttoning John’s shirt, brushing his lips over each bit of skin that he uncovered. When he reached John’s trousers, he flicked open the top button and licked the stripe of skin right above the zipper. John inhaled sharply through his teeth.

                   “What are you doing?” He asked, wondering if Sherlock had invented a new type of cruel, inhuman torture.

                    “Apologizing.” Sherlock mumbled into John’s skin.

                    He pulled John’s trousers down to his knees and pressed his mouth over the bulge in his pants.

                    “W-what about, why am I cuffed to the bed?” John asked, voice already thicker than it ought to have been.

                    “Restraints can heighten arousal. I read about it on the internet.  I thought it would make an…interesting experiment.” Sherlock said, looking far too pleased with himself.

                     “Don’t tell me you _planned_ this…”

                     “No.” Sherlock interrupts. “Just happy coincidence.”

                      Sherlock shifted John’s hips and pulled his pants down to his knees, then looked him up and down like he was examining a particularly interesting corpse or perhaps a delicious four-course meal. The heat rose to John’s cheeks and he opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was became a gasp as Sherlock licked him once from root to tip. He watched as Sherlock’s mouth encircled him and went down, down painfully slowly. He struggled at the cuffs then, for the first time, and felt a sharp prickle of arousal when the metal held him back. Sherlock bobbed his head in an even rhythm, hollowing his cheeks and occasionally sucking at the tip in a way that made John’s eyelashes flutter. After a few moments he forced himself even farther down and John’s hips jumped as he felt himself hit the back of Sherlock’s throat. The little choking noise Sherlock made was _obscene_. John pulled at the cuffs in mixed frustration and arousal. The only thing in the world he wanted to do was tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and push him down to take more and more, to have him make that sound again and again.

                     “God you’re fucking _mouth_.” John gasped.

                     Sherlock rewarded him by taking him deeper, again. His face was flushed from the effort and his brows were furrowed in concentration. He was salivating so much around John’s prick he felt soaked.

                     “ _Fuck_. The way you look right now…” John babbled, feeling heat pool rapidly in his stomach.

                     Sherlock slid his mouth up and started a quicker rhythm, exactly what John needed to pull him to climax. He kneaded his hands in John’s thighs and looked up at him through lowered lashes.

                      “Yeah, like that. That’s—ah, I’m going to—fuck yes.” John nearly growled, his hips canting up as he shot the first stream.

                      Sherlock held his grip on John’s thighs while he swallowed and _damn_ , John thought, if that wasn’t the most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen. Sherlock sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was still flushed and his pupils were blown wide and dark as pitch.

                      Sherlock got the key from the bedside table and unlocked the handcuffs, rubbing at John’s wrists as John had done for him.

                      “Alright?” he asked, tentatively.

                      “Mm, fine. Just a bit sore.” John replied, stretching his arms over his head.

The muscles in John’s shoulders protested for being held at such an odd angle, but it had certainly been worth the effort. He kicked his trousers the rest of the way down, then lifted his hips to pulls his pants back up.

                       “Being modest are we, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked playfully.

                       “Come here.” John said, pulling Sherlock onto the bed next to him. “Why are you wearing all these clothes?”

                        He fiddled with the buttons Sherlock’s top while licking into his mouth, savoring the silky texture of his tongue and sucking at it lightly. After a moment, Sherlock huffed in irritation.

                        “Too _slow_.”

                         His long fingers pushed John’s out of the way and deftly undid the remaining buttons. John took the hint and unzipped his trousers, then attempted to pull them off his body, which took a great deal of effort.

                         “I don’t know how you wear these.” John said while battling the trousers. “They’re like a second skin.”

                          “Don’t rip them!” Sherlock said irritably as John yanked at the material.

                         “I’ll buy you a new pair.” John added, finally removing the trousers completely.

                         “Oh please.” Sherlock scoffed. “You couldn’t possibly afford--”

                         John took that moment to press his hand firmly against the front of Sherlock’s pants, giving a gentle squeeze.

                         “Let’s do something other than talking now, yeah?” John said, coyly nipping at Sherlock’s hipbone.

                          He replaced his hand with his mouth, breathing hot and damp against the fabric, tracing the lines of Sherlock’s prick through the material with his tongue. Sherlock’s hips pressed up but John pulled his mouth away.

                         “Stop teasing.” Sherlock whined.

                         “Hm, but you deserve it.” John said, but he hooked two fingers in the waistband and pulled down anyway.

                         Sherlock’s prick was hot and flushed and gorgeous. John leaned down and gently licked the bead of precome off the tip, just to see Sherlock squirm and whimper. He took him all the way down once, twice, three times…and then pulled off and chuckled.

                          Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at John with an expression that was both confused and mildly furious.

                          “I was just thinking, you’re never going to learn to stop misbehaving if I always reward you for it.” John said, smirking up at him and darting his tongue out for a brief lick.

                           “Hmm, well…” Sherlock stretched his arm out to retrieve the handcuffs from the bedside table, and then jingled them lightly. “You’re welcome to use these.”

 

_fin_


End file.
